One month to summer vacation.
Finals crept closer. The sculpting project had been stored away in the campus exhibition hall, half-forgotten behind congratulatory flyers. Second-year lectures blurred into each other. Most students dragged their feet through the spring heat.
Leo didn't.
Nox never had.
Their mornings began on the rooftop, same time every day. Warmups. Sparring. Shadow drills. Gun handling. Wound management.
Leo's sutures were clean now—better than clean. Professional.thanks to the injuries nox get every time he goes to the underground fighting club.
He could hit his mark even if Nox threw him into a rolling dodge midair. He didn't even complain anymore.
That morning, sweat glistened on their skin as they collapsed into the concrete. Leo's arms shook with exhaustion. Nox, shirtless as always at this hour, lit his cigarette like they hadn't just survived a small war.
Leo stepped away to answer a call—his father.
When he returned, he didn't say anything at first. Just slid a cigarette between his lips, leaned down slightly, and brushed Nox's neck with his hand up to lift his chin close .
A casual touch.
A routine motion.
Nox didn't flinch.
Leo lit his cigarette using the one already burning in Nox's mouth, took a drag, then spoke calmly.
"Dad got us a reservation for tonight. Even Dominik's coming. Brought you that custom knife you asked for—obsidian edge, double sheath."
Nox exhaled smoke with a deadpan blink. "Dominik is dragging your father's reputation into the gutter. He cried last time. Over his son's first kill. That's not a right-hand man. That's a butler with PTSD."
Leo laughed, shoulders shaking. "You're not wrong."
"Obviously."
Lecture passed in a daze—Nox silent and detached as always, Leo now known for dry sarcasm and startling precision in every hands-on workshop.
At lunch, they debated which wine to bring.
By late afternoon, they were back in the dorm. Leo stood shirtless in front of the mirror, holding up two blazers. Nox was crouched beside a laptop, hacking into the restaurant's floor plan and checking heat signatures for unusual proximity patterns.
"What about this one?" Leo held up a deep navy.
"No. Go black. Slim lapels."
"You just like drama."
"I like not being seen in crosshairs."
Leo shrugged. "You're the fashion terrorist who insists on hiding knives in every inch of fabric. Aren't you the one who almost slit someone's thigh last month because you forgot where you hid the thigh holster?"
"Collateral damage," Nox said with a straight face.
By the time they left the dorm, they looked… lethal.
Tailored black suits. Immaculate detailing. Leo's shirt collar left slightly open, showing the thin gold chain at his neck. Nox wore his mask again—the sleek matte one that fit perfectly beneath the shadow of a classic chapeau. Gloves on. Hidden blades sheathed under sleeves, belt, and coat lining.
He even lined his boots with garrote wire.
The soft scent of gun oil clung faintly to their cologne.
They walked like they belonged to no one—and everyone.
Dinner with the six mafia territory leaders was a formal affair. Neutral ground, technically. But anything could happen.
As they stepped into the sleek black car sent by Leo's father, Leo reached over and casually adjusted Nox's lapel.
Nox didn't look at him.
Leo grinned. "Let's not get blood on the suit before dessert, alright?"
Nox's voice was low.
"Unlikely."
"Then no promises."
End of Chapter 56